Moving has been a fantastic, much-needed change for me. I was feeling increasingly stagnant and claustrophobic in my last place. So viscerally so, in fact, that I'd find myself actually gasping for air, as if it was running out.

But it's done a number on the writerly part of my brain. It feels like all the words that usually organize themselves and line up in an orderly fashion for me got all jumbled together with everything else I tossed haphazardly into boxes and dragged downstairs. I'm still unpacking them, and I'm not sure where they should go.

Also, the banality of my own domesticity is weighing on me a little bit, saying, "Great, you moved. You did a thing millions of people do every year. BETTER HURRY UP AND TELL THE WORLD ABOUT IT." Ya know?

So I'm sort of forcing myself to write this post to get that banality behind me, and hopefully clear the way for more interesting and creative thoughts.

It went like this, basically: They raised my rent, almost $200. That's not surprising, since they've been bumping up rent substantially in my building over the past couple of years. But I'd heretofore been spared.

When the lease renewal offer showed up in my inbox at such a ridiculous rate, the subconscious part of my brain that had been mulling over what would happen in just such a scenario stepped forward and became conscious thought. Namely, "Fuck it. You should just move in with Terence."

For one thing, if I signed another lease, we'd be looking at least another year of commuting to date. My not having a car leaves that pretty much all on Terence's shoulders, since a bus or bike ride or bus+bike ride to his place is kind of an asspain, and also doesn't factor into consideration Chaucer, who needs letting out, etc.

For another, my building is incredibly conveniently located. Walking distance to almost everything a person needs, and a block from the train station. Also, it's a really, really nice building, in a great, relatively quiet area of downtown.

So without mentioning anything to Terence yet, I stopped by my leasing office to let them know I might be in the market for a bigger unit, around X dollars/month, and to keep me in mind if anything opened up. Well, something had just opened up that day, for $200 less than the price range I'd quoted, and it was a lower-level loft of the same layout Terence and I had previewed before, just for shits and giggles.

For me it was a no-brainer, but Terence needed convincing. He'd just moved into an adorable house in Silver Lake less than six months prior, that he loved. He loved it so much, in fact, that he'd been hoping eventually I'd move in with him. But while the Silver Lake house was really sweet, it would have been virtually impossible for me to live there without a car. Which I don't have. It isn't a walk-to-what-you-need neighborhood. It's too far from the train. There are no parks or grassy areas for Chaucer, like there are downtown. It just wasn't an option.

So we talked and talked and talked and in the end, financial considerations (for us both) won out (we're both saving a lot of money this way). That, and we really, really, really love the apartment that opened up. Everything about it was - is - perfect. But it was an incredibly difficult decision for Terence to give up his new home, and it's been an intensely emotional transition for him. While I schlepped my shit down three flours over a day and a half, he took the rest of the month to consolidate, sell, donate, and generally be ready to be here. In fact he only just finished today. Meanwhile I was all, Hurrrrrry upppppp, godddddd. Sensitivity fail.

I posted a quick video tour on Instagram, but here's a Diptic dump of some actual pics:

And that's how the next phase of Ellie's So-Called Life came to be. We're in the process of fusing our belongings and figuring out storage solutions and all that junk, so it might be a little while yet before it's decorated and ready for its closeup.

In the meantime, thanks loads to everyone who has been so enthusiastic and excited for us, and reached out to say congrats. We know how totally bananas we seem for jumping in so fast, and I really appreciate the support. :)

I am never more aware of how self-absorbed a pursuit blogging is than when I return to it after a break, feeling compelled to account for my absence for a moment before remembering that really, Ellie, no1curr. The world continued to turn just fine without updates from my tiny, insignificant corner of it.

Still, by way of explanation for those of you who don't do the Instagram thing: I moved into a new apartment - with Terence. And it's been amazing and fun and overwhelming and challenging and great and scary and hilarious and all the things that the first two weeks of cohabitation usually is. And I haven't made time to blog, because of all the expected reasons. I mean, The Container Store isn't going to shop itself, amirite?

But I'm mostly settled in now, and feel like I have enough room in my brain to return to thrice-weekly blasts of ME ME ME from a brand-new location a few floors down in the same old building. I'll explain why I stayed so close in the next post, or the one after that. For now though I am just firing this off to ease back into things, and because truthfully I'm too weak and hungry to dig into anything more substantial, since I just ran three laps around the cornfield on nothing but a venti Machiatto and six (homemade, not very good) molasses cookies. Einstein here needs to make some real food.

In the meantime however, I have a fun/cute(?) Chaucer thing to share.

One day on a walk a few months ago, Ridiculips stopped dead on the sidewalk when he saw we were heading in the opposite direction of the park we usually visit. He wouldn't budge, no matter how much I pleaded with him, and just kept glancing the way that he clearly wanted to go. When I realized what was up, I took a testing step in the "right" direction. He immediately started walking again. It was so cute and smart of him that I had to laugh, and I went along with his wishes.

I created a monster that day.

Ever since then, he's been walking me. Ever since it dawned on him that if his 135 lbs don't want to go in a particular direction, his 135 lbs don't fucking have to, walks with Chaucer are Chaucer-directed, with zero allowances for change and deviation. It is Chaucer's world, and I'm just scooping poop in it.

With this new program, he's grown increasingly bold and curious and demanding. He was always a very inquisitive dog, peeking into corners and trotting down steps he'd never been down, looking for cats or just meandering for the fun of it - but now he's really loving life. And yesterday I taped a bit of our walk to show you what I mean. You can see him glancing down at a little section of grass he's taken to exploring, up by the John Ferraro Building. At first I'd go down with him, but now we've worked out a system where I unclip him, let him go do his thing solo for a minute, and then call him up before we continue on together.

We do this every. single. time.

It's ridiculous, and letting him call the shots is a truly terrible habit I need to curb ASAP, but I can't help loving that he's so smart and stubborn and full of personality. Oh and sorry for my ugly, grating voice, ugh.

I am all for corporate accountability. And I've said before that I think the accessibility that Twitter provides between companies and customers is fantastic. But some Tweeps seem to consider that accessibility a license to be shitheads. To be arrogant, self-important, entitled, whiny little brats. To name drop Company X, in order to bully, shame, or manipulate Company Y into compliance with their demands.

And maybe I'm the only one, but I find it so gross. I'm experiencing much second-hand embarrassment on behalf of people who seem to have zero self-awareness of how impolite and pushy they sound.

If you want to use Twitter to voice complaints, go for it. Power to the people, etc. But maybe stop and think for .02 seconds before you fire off your ~140 character screed. Specifically these thoughts might serve you well:

Is this public forum really the appropriate medium for my request?

Am I counting on my OMGklout to get me the outcome I desire? And is that cool or is it incredibly douchetastic?

At the other end of my digital foot stomping is an actual human being, who probably spends her entire day responding to impatient angerballs. How can I use tone and word choice to voice my desire/displeasure while still showing respect to that working professional?

Every single one of my followers is about to get an illustration of how I speak to service professionals. They'll probably assume I'm equally as polite/pompous to waiters, flight attendants, bank tellers, and hotel maids. And they'll draw conclusions about my character accordingly.

I am actually not a special snowflake entitled to everything I want. I am actually not a special snowflake entitled to everything I want. I am actually...
Or, you know, carry on as usual. No one is giving you serious side-eye. Really. No one at all.

I saw Trevor Powers last night, waiting with Terence and some friends to get ramen in Little Tokyo. He's the musician behind Youth Lagoon, which is my favorite avant-garde, lo-fi, neo-psych dream pop art project, of all the avant-garde, lo-fi, neo-psych dream pop art projects I listen to (currently, one). Here's one of his songs, and here's a photo of him:

Cool, right?

Except this person claimed not to know who I was talking about, when I approached him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant after much urging from my friends (who, when I showed them the above picture on my phone, agreed that it was most definitely him).

I wasn't going to say anything in the first place. I didn't want to be annoying and intrusive and fangirly while he was just waiting for some damn noodles. But the guys said he'd probably be flattered, so I prepared a little speech in my head which went something like I apologize for disturbing you, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't tell you what I huge fan I was, and that your performance at Coachella last year kind of changed my life.

But when he responded to my opening line of "Sorry to bother you, but has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Trevor Powers?" with "Huh uh, I don't know who that is. I get Bob Dylan a lot, though..." I had to turn, tail tucked, back to my friends who were watching from a few feet away and explain that it wasn't him.

Only, they don't buy it. Terence neither. They think it was him, and that he was lying to me. I've since tried to triangulate his coordinates via social media and his tour calendar, but no help there. If it was him and he fibbed because he didn't want to deal with me, naturally I am mortified. If it wasn't, I'm still mortified at having bugged some random kid on the street.

So maybe I saw Trevor Powers tonight, in Little Tokyo, and maybe I didn't. It would be kind of funny if it was him, since I was waiting to get NOODLES after all...but I'm gonna just let it sit as a big question mark until I know otherwise.